


Beds

by write_away



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “I’ve never broken anyone’s nose before,” Jean informs Combeferre mildly as Enjolras leads him to a chair in the kitchen. His head pounds behind his eyes, the pain flickering like fire, and his vision is somewhat hazy, but considering he made it here all right, he supposes he’ll be all right. He cradles his hand against his chest anyway, wincing when Combeferre gently takes it by the wrist and pulls it into the candlelight. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jean Prouvaire needs a place to stay after he punches a neighbor in the face, and Combeferre is insistent that he takes a bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnetheCatDetective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/gifts).



> This is nowhere near as long as I'd have hoped, so I apologize, but I really hope you enjoy it anyway. Happy holidays!

 

“I’ve never broken anyone’s nose before,” Jean informs Combeferre mildly as Enjolras leads him to a chair in the kitchen. His head pounds behind his eyes, the pain flickering like fire, and his vision is somewhat hazy, but considering he made it here, he supposes he’ll be all right. He cradles his hand against his chest anyway, wincing when Combeferre gently takes it by the wrist and pulls it into the candlelight.

 He hums and gestures to Enjolras, who leaves the room swiftly with a pained expression on his face. Jean isn’t sure if it’s worry or aggravation, but he figures he’ll find out if he’s meant to. “I really didn’t mean to break his nose,” he says for at least the third time since his hand first curled into a fist and connected with that man’s face. He’d howled in rage and knocked Jean to the ground, but otherwise left him intact. Thank God for small miracles. 

“I don’t intend to crush your ego, but I daresay you _didn’t_. My friend, I fear you’ve lost this battle,” Combeferre mutters and helps him straighten out his fingers. They’re swollen and sore, searing pain shooting through them with every twitch, but they still move. “Enjolras, hand me some of those splints?” His eye glints mischievously as he turns toward their blond friend. “The ones you retired only days ago?” 

Enjolras scowls good-naturedly and flexes his fingers before handing over the strips of wood. “I never intended for anyone to take after my example,” he murmurs, then turns sharply to pour some absinthe into a glass that looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. This, of course, is no different from the dishware in Jean’s own flat. Students such as them barely have the time to eat, he feels, let alone clean.

Jean grins and cringes simultaneously as Combeferre wraps his hand. “Then what are all your politics for, fearless leader?” he mocks. “I only fight for freedom, and, of course, the chance to see your beautiful face. One might think you _want_ to be followed, with the show you tend to put on.” 

Combeferre rolls his eyes as he finishes his work. “Now, don’t start on that. Grantaire and the ladies wax lyrical about Enjolras’s divinity quite often enough. And I’m quite sure you’re delirious, as it is.” 

Enjolras scowls and slams the glass on the table, its contents nearly sloshing over the sides, though Jean can’t help laughing.

“Grantaire doesn’t mean anything by it. He admires you – we all do,” he defends and reaches for the glass with his good hand, taking a sip and letting it burn down his throat. It will do good to dull the pain, probably as Enjolras had intended, but he can’t help but tease. With a teasing grin, he finishes the rest of the drink in one gulp. “And I’ll remind you that he is not the only one who can drink and compose poetry.”

Enjolras and Combeferre both laugh at this, pulling their own chairs up to the table, presumably to finish the meager supper Jean now realizes he’s interrupted. He leans wearily on the edge of the table, sighing as weariness seems to suddenly catch up and clench him.

“I’ll do my best to remember your thrilling verses and incredible ability to hold your liquor, Monsieur Prouvaire,” Enjolras says dryly, sipping on his own drink that Jean suspects is completely nonalcoholic. He frowns, his smile slipping. “I must ask – what _did_ bring you to fight today? That’s unlike you.”

Jean shrugs. “There is a man in my apartment building who tends to be quite cruel to some of the women.” The men’s expressions harden, but Jean rushes ahead before they can anger too quickly. “Mademoiselle Duval had it quite under control, I’ll say – I merely stepped in to stop him from harming her.”

“It seems he decided to harm you instead,” Enjolras says bitterly.

Jean shrugs again. His personal outcome is unimportant in the long run, he believes, because the man sulked away quietly once the fight was done and Mademoiselle Duval was fine. “I will recover, won’t I, Combeferre?” 

Combeferre is somber, but he nods, if a bit reluctantly. Jean knows he objects to violence on most grounds, but he’s sensible enough to know when a man needs a concept thrown in his face properly. “But perhaps you should take an early night anyway,” he suggests. His plate already polished clean, he stands and helps Jean to his feet. “You can have my bed.”

Jean blushes fiercely. “Oh, no. I’ll have the couch – it’s no issue.” He never had any intention of staying overnight, but his friends look ready to argue, so he won’t bother protesting _that_. Still, he doesn’t mean to throw either of them out of their own comforts. He catches Enjolras smirk rather unsubtly into his drink and narrows his eyes. “What? I see your smugness, Enjolras. What is it? Did you plan to share your bed with Combeferre?”

Enjolras nearly chokes at being caught red-handed, and now he is the one who blushes. “I – my – _what_?”

It’s almost endearing how flustered he can get. Jean shakes his head, laughing. “No need to be so alarmed, friend. I only wanted to joke. But truly – your hospitality is already astounding. I don’t need either of your beds.”

“Nonsense.” Combeferre almost manages to make the single word sound scolding. He takes Jean by his good arm and tugs him out of the kitchen. “Come, let’s get you set up for the night.” 

Jean follows, biting back an argument for the sake of peace. If Combeferre wants him to take the bed, he’s not going to turn away the comfort.

* * *

 

Jean wakes to moonlight hours later, its silvery streaks falling over Combeferre’s bed in a delicate pattern that he loathes to disturb with rumpled sheets and shifted limbs, but he rolls out of bed anyway, his throat dry and head still pounding from earlier. He can still hear quiet voices from the den – perhaps after a short trip to the kitchen, he’ll be able to persuade Combeferre to take his room back.

Bare feet padding softly on wood, he edges to the doorway, rubbing his eyes somewhat sleepily.

“Do you think he means it?” Enjolras has a voice of gleaming gold, unmistakable even at a whisper, and Jean can’t help himself from pausing just inside the bedroom. “That people will engage in violence for the cause?”

If Enjolras’ voice is gold, Combeferre’s is weathered wood, worn down in all the right places. “I think people will do whatever they must to achieve their goals. Even I.” There is a pause, the barely-there sound of lips meeting. “Don’t be discomforted by the notion. Weaker men than you have led armies into battle. Less beautiful ones, as well.”

Jean can practically hear Enjolras’ frown. “I don’t want them to follow me for my face, I want them to follow me for –”

“Your ideas,” Combeferre says with a sigh, his tone teasing even in annoyance. “I know. And they will.”

Jean hears them kiss, and then kiss again, and suddenly feels like he shouldn’t be hearing this. Quietly, he backs into Combeferre’s room, grinning ear to ear.

Perhaps they ought to share a bed after all.

 


End file.
